More poetry by Pip Wilson

Page 4

All poems Copyright © 2001-now, Pip Wilson, Wilson's Almanac

 

 

 

Out of time: a song in millions of parts
 

When I was a boy and you were a man
my mother had me but she never had you.
We went to the Church of the Holy Big Deal
and none was a bigger Big Deal than you.
I could have gone to Amsterdam and slept for joy,
but, then, you were a man, and I was a boy.
 
When I was in Sydney and you were in London
we both had in common a couple of things –
one was we both knew what you were about,
the other was love for a man who sings.
I would have played lead in a rock 'n' roll band,
but then I was a boy and not nearly a man.
 
When you wrote the best song ever penned by a man
I was the walrus and my friends understood.
When the Boss wanted my soul and I feared he would win,
you whispered to me that the Boss never could.
I nearly escaped his maniacal rules,
but you were in Heaven, and I was in school.
 
The newspapers said you were coming to town –
you weren't, of course, but there's no argument.
Baz and I threw a whole flagon down
and ran through the shops yelling "God's coming! Repent!!"
God was being born on a new bed of hay,
but I was a boy, misinformed on his ways.
 
The Boss kept on trying, from that day till now –
But you kept your silence, you didn't need me!
And I didn't need you, but I only found out
when I howled at the gunman, the press and TV.
For one evening the planet grew out of your head,
for we were alive, but Johnny was dead.
 
You were a musician; I took other roads,
usually around and around in a fit.
To Jesus and Buddha and others I've kneeled,
but never since then have I said "This is it".
Tomorrow always knows a new world has begun,
and today in my joy and my bliss I'm reborn.
 
The pools and the waves and the flowers that grow
I strove to express in the shade of your mind.
You'll smile at the allusion, but your blood as it flowed
compelled that this corpse be as young as a child.
Universes unfold in a different degree,
for John, you were John, and thank you, I'm me.
 
(Updated version of poem from way back ... December 1980)  

My article on John Lennon's legacy »

 

Bulldozerman

"Take a look at me tatts, and take a squiz at me arms;
The ink's run inta wrinkly levva.
An' look at me knobbled fingers
all rooned from work 'n' wevva.
An' I used ta draw before viss paw
got mangled in the turbine –
I used ta paint like a bloody saint,
an' now I can't draw a line.

Viss tatt 'ere, I was jist 16,
pissed an' down from the farm.
An' I thought it made me a man,
but I'd rather 'ave me arm.
An' this tatt 'ere, the dragon's 'ead,
I don't remember gettin' –
like I don't remember 'alf me drunks,
me fights, me girls, or me bettin'.

An' what sorta man am I really now,
ridin' 'igh on this crackly seat?
I own this beast and I own me 'ouse,
but I'd rather be on the street.

It's funny ta knock me loungeroom down,
and the rubble is bittersweet;
we'd watch the telly ev'ry night
an' I'd sometimes feel … complete.
We'd watch the News and A Current Affair
an' maybe watch Roseanne.
Watch the Simpsons or sumpin' else
what all of us could stand,
like Seinfeld or Survivor,
an' sometimes I would make
the kids watch a docku-mentary,
an' what a row they'd make.
An' Cheryl would call me "weak"
when I gave in. An' maybe she wuz right.
We watched the Sydney Games last year,
and the World Trade fing vat night.

Remember vat night I stumbled 'ome,
from a sesh at the bettin' shop,
an' I told 'er I was sorry,
an' I told 'er I would stop.
An' she 'eard next day from Marg'ret 'ay
about me "incident" –
'ow, pissed as a newt, I threw me loot
in the park, and we 'ad no rent.
But I got me shit togevva
and I 'aven't 'ad a bet
or a drink for years – but me 'ead goes orf
– me docta sez its "fear".

An' 'e might be right, an' 'e might be rong,
I know I nevva 'ad no balls …
an' who's ta say if I'm a man,
demolishin' me walls?
But it feels a little betta –
Or does it? – I dunno,
but somefink jist come over me,
and Cheryl's got ta know
that me tatts 'ave faded inta mud,
an' when she took me kids,
vat last little part of me stupid 'eart –
well … dunno – knocked me dead.

An' she wanted 'alf the 'ouse;
well, Cheryl, you c'n choose:
the rubble 'ere or the rubble there,
I've got nuthin' left ta lose.

An' I wish to Gord I wuz really mad,
but I don't fink I really am.
An' I wish that this shit made me feel a bit,
or at least feel like a man."

(Glossary: tatts = tattoos; squiz = look; viss = this; sesh = session, usually drinking or drug session)

 

 

Climbing roses
("Let's just be friends" - the four worst words in English?)

Moon alight, creamy light. Café latté, pearl night.
Roses pink, laughter pink, and a car.
White moon on the jasmine, heart swelling, a dreaming.
False hopes. Roses climb to the stars.

I remember that night in a back lane in Newtown
when I risked going home bound or free.
I picked climbing roses, took half for myself
(or you'd get the right idea about me).

Moon alight, creamy light. Café latté, pearl night.
Roses pink, laughter pink, and a car.
White moon on the jasmine, heart swelling, a dreaming.
False hopes. Roses climb to the stars.

And I know it is over before it's begun,
and I know you will never love me.
But I still hear you laugh in a café in Auburn
when just for one night you saw me.

There once was a night, it was only one evening,
I had waited six weeks for that night,
when Diana the Huntress flew over our hearts,
and the hunter's heart met her in flight.

But the hunted in Seven Hills had other plans,
no agreement was made for the chase,
and I drove you back home by a back lane in Newtown
(I knew there were flowers in that place).

Moon alight, creamy light. Café latté, pearl night.
Roses pink, laughter pink, and a car.
White moon on the jasmine, heart swelling, a dreaming.
False hopes. Roses climb to the stars.

And I'm sorry that I sent so many text messages
from shoe phone to shoe phone last night,
but I adore your company so much that I felt
that to have it was somehow my right.

They tell me I'm foolish, you might think me the same,
but it's me takes this scene till he's old:
me climbing, you beaming, moon gleaming, pink roses,
fresh jasmine, pink laughter, the cold,

Moon alight, creamy light. Café latté, pearl night.
Roses pink, laughter pink, and a car.
White moon on the jasmine, heart swelling, a dreaming.
False hopes. Roses climb to the stars.

 

 

 

 

 

"The 43-day trial last year heard evidence of Sir Elton John's lavish lifestyle, including claims he spent $90 million in just under two years – an average of nearly $4.3 million a month.

"He spent nearly $30 million on property and $900,000 on flowers between January 1996 and September 1997."
Helen McCabe, ‘Elton John loses court cash battle', Daily Telegraph (Sydney), Thursday, April 12, 2001, p 42

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